February 19, 2030 – 7:04 AM
The world split apart with a thunderclap.
The shockwave from the explosion surged outward, tearing through the morning air like a scream. Storefront windows burst, car alarms blared, and a cloud of fire swallowed the intersection. Civilians scattered, tripping over each other as chaos surged through the heart of the city.
Agent May was thrown from the epicenter like a ragdoll, her body tumbling through the air. She barely had time to brace before gravity pulled her back down.
Then—a sudden force caught her.
Blue-white propulsion flared, washing the smoke in a harsh glow. Agent November rocketed through the air, arms outstretched, snatching May mid-fall with practiced precision. Her gauntlets locked around May's waist, and the moment their momentum balanced, she engaged reverse thrusters.
"I've got you," November said into the comms, her tone steady but breathless.
Together, they rose above the panicked streets, flames reflecting off their suits. Below them, the wreckage of Michael's last position lay in a crater of steel and scorched pavement.
But he was gone.
Down the smoldering road, an armored truck growled to life. Through the haze, Michael emerged—untouched, towering, his reinforced armor charred but unbroken. His visor flickered as systems recalibrated. He climbed into the vehicle without a word, and the truck peeled away, tires screeching across broken glass.
Agent January spotted the movement. He sprinted toward a nearby tactical truck, already hot-wired by Agent October.
"Let's go!" January barked.
He dove into the driver's seat. The engine roared as they launched after Michael, weaving through traffic and destruction. Steam hissed from cracked pipes. Civilians ducked behind abandoned vehicles. This wasn't just a pursuit.
This was a war zone.
Above, November gained altitude, adjusting her flight trajectory. May clung to her, one arm looped around the taller woman's shoulder, the other reaching behind her to retrieve the sniper rifle still magnetized to her back.
"Get me on that truck," May said, voice sharp with renewed focus.
November didn't need to ask which one. Below, January and October were in pursuit, tailing Michael through the broken artery of downtown. She angled downward, boosters flaring. They descended like twin meteors.
November landed first, her boots thudding onto the reinforced roof of January's vehicle. The suspension groaned under the impact.
She set May down with care. "You're up."
May dropped to one knee, adjusting her stance against the rushing wind. Her fingers danced over the rifle, loading a fresh magazine and snapping the scope into place.
Her lips curved into a grin.
"Alright," she muttered. "Let's ruin his day."
Michael drove with brutal precision, the truck cutting across lanes and slamming aside anything in its way. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white beneath armored gloves. His mind was a storm of calculations, reflexes, and a single emotion buried beneath the rage:
Focus.
He glanced once at the rearview mirror—just once.
He saw them. Still chasing. Still alive.
He pressed harder on the pedal.
"Tires," May whispered. "Just give me the shot."
November adjusted her stance behind her, stabilizing the platform as best she could.
May exhaled slowly.
Then she fired.
The bullet screamed downrange. It struck true.
The truck's back tire exploded in a burst of rubber and smoke. Michael's vehicle buckled, swerved violently, then slammed into the median. The screech of metal echoed like a death knell.
Michael didn't hesitate. The door burst open. He stepped out.
Smoke curled around his shoulders. His gauntlets hissed with cooling gas. His helmet, cracked but intact, tilted toward the oncoming agents.
He didn't run.
He waited.
January was the first to respond. He jumped from the moving truck, rolling to his feet, guns drawn. He fired a spread of rounds at Michael, aiming for the joints and face.
But the gauntlets hummed with kinetic shielding. The bullets ricocheted.
Michael moved. Fast.
He met January mid-sprint, absorbing a hail of gunfire before throwing a vicious elbow. January ducked it, spinning behind a rusted sedan for cover.
October appeared from the shadows, his twin blades flashing. He danced around Michael, striking high and low. One blade scraped Michael's pauldron, drawing sparks but no blood.
May fired again from above. The bullet hit the joint of Michael's left knee. He staggered, just a beat—enough to show he felt it.
"Damn it," she muttered, reloading.
Then came November.
She launched herself down like a vengeful comet, arms alight. Her left arm extended into a crackling plasma blade; her right, a cannon glowing with unstable energy.
She struck once. Twice. A third time. Each hit sent shockwaves across the pavement.
Michael caught her by the throat.
November didn't resist. Instead, she twisted, letting the momentum spin her body around his arm. She drove the cannon into his shoulder and fired point-blank.
A resounding crack.
The armor split.
She dropped to the ground and rolled clear. "Focus fire on the damage!"
May answered first. Her round punched through the weakened plating, revealing scorched, exposed flesh.
Michael roared. Not in pain.
In fury.
He lashed out. October was caught mid-dash, flung against the hood of a nearby car. January lunged with a steel beam, swinging like a spear.
Michael grabbed it mid-air and shattered it.
November fired again. Her plasma cannon burned a path across his chest. The armor cracked further.
But they were tiring.
Michael's gauntlet surged. Electricity danced across its surface. He slammed it into January's chest, sending him flying backward into a pile of debris.
Then—
"Heads down!" May shouted.
Another bullet screamed through the air.
CRACK!
Michael's helmet jerked sideways, a fracture spiderwebbing across the faceplate.
CRACK!
A second shot tore through his cheek plate. The metal shattered, revealing a glimpse of blood and skin.
He stopped.
He turned.
And then he saw her.
Standing atop a crushed van, framed by smoke and rising embers, was Agent February.
The morning sun cut through the haze behind her, turning her silhouette into something mythic. Her long coat snapped in the wind. Her grip on May's rifle was unwavering—but her breath trembled in her chest.
Michael stilled.
All noise fell away. The fire, the screams, the chaos—muted, like the world had stepped back to let them speak.
His cracked visor slid upward with a hiss, revealing his face at last.
Blood streaked his temple. One eye swollen. The other—still that same piercing gray she remembered.
"Brielle" he said softly.
The name reached her through the smoke. A whisper, but it hit like thunder.
He took a step closer.
She didn't stop him.
"Please," he whispered. "Let me see your face. One last time."
Slowly, mechanically, February lifted her free hand and removed her porcelain mask.
Brielle Swinton.
The woman behind the code.
The woman he once held beneath the stars.
Their eyes locked—two broken hearts separated by war, memory, and choice.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I know," he replied.
Her hands steadied. Her shoulders squared. She took a breath not as an agent, not as a soldier.
But as a woman ending something that once felt eternal.
She pulled the trigger.
The sound was absolute.
The bullet pierced him just above the heart. His body jolted with the force, armor splitting wide. His eyes widened—but not with pain.
With peace.
Michael staggered. His knees gave out. He collapsed slowly, like a statue losing its foundation. As he fell, he never looked away from her.
He smiled.
A real one.
Then his body slumped forward, and he was still.
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was reverent.
February lowered the rifle with trembling hands. Her knees folded, and she sank atop the van, as if her soul had been pulled down with the shot.
She didn't weep.
But her heart cracked open.
May climbed up beside her, silent. She said nothing at first. Just sat there, close, letting the gravity of it settle.
Then she reached over and rested a hand on February's back.
"You saved lives today," she said quietly. "Even his."
February's voice barely rose above the wind. "Then why does it feel like I lost everything?"
May had no answer.
On the ground below, January groaned and pulled himself upright, bleeding but alive. October limped past debris, wiping blood from his brow. November stood over Michael's body, her eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but mourning.
The comms crackled.
"Well done," December's voice came through. "Retrieve the bio-weapon. Secure the scene. And... bring her home."
February didn't look away from Michael.
The man she'd once loved.
The man she had killed.
Her lips moved, soundless.
A goodbye only he would ever hear.
The mission was complete.
But something inside her had just begun to die.